Escape from the Garden (Part 2)

Conclusion of a sort of coming-of-age story

TW: Language, some meanness, corporeal punishment with a switch. Part One recap: Mary underwent the blood ceremony to become part of the gang and spends her summer hanging out with them instead of her usual games of imagination.

The gang and I were thick as thieves that summer and though I occasionally indulged in imaginary adventures, my cast of thousands had lost its shine. Jesse, Billy, and Matt moved over to make way for Skip, the blood brothers and games of competition. I felt guilty about this as though I was ignoring my dear friends even as I felt I may have betrayed some deeply important part of myself.

One especially hot day, we were back behind the shed playing dodge ball. It was a sweaty, intense, and dirty game but ball had become a way of life in the garden. After a while, we took a break and Bill meandered off to the hickory tree to pee.

“You’re not supposed to do that! If Grandma catches you, you’ll be in big trouble,” I said with some annoyance.

All the gang would usually pee somewhere other than the outhouse (I especially resented it when they peed around my hickories). But it was hard to blame anyone for avoiding the outhouse, especially on days where the heat made the aroma eye-wateringly pungent. Of course, being a girl I did not have the same choice in the matter, and I resented that fact as well.

Bill retorted, “Whatsa matter with your grandma – she got something against taking a piss?”

Twittering laughter.

“Yeah, what’s the deal?” Gary chimed in.

“Don’t your grandma piss, Mary?” Marshall quipped.

“Oh, yeah, she does, but I bet it’s like this…”

Bill began to enact a prissy little scene with my grandma lifting her skirts and with a pained and disdainful look, squatting clumsily to pee. They all cackled – it might have been the best performance of Bill’s non-existent theater career. Even Skip was rolling on the ground. For me, it was not funny at all…because it was about my grandma…and it was about all girls too. It was an embarrassing reminder of the differences that required us to squat to pee. Bill’s imitation made me think of the time I tried squatting and drenched my socks.

I stood awkwardly silent, my face red and splotchy.

By not joining in, I had separated myself from the gang. Yet, I began to realize I was never really one of them - never truly on equal footing with the blood brothers, despite the ceremony. It was a sad epiphany that made me hate them and myself for believing otherwise. I decided not to laugh it off but to stand my ground - it was my garden, not theirs.

I initiated a stare-down and directed it at Skip, since he chose to laugh with the brothers instead of defending the honor of my grandma and all women (this is no doubt how class-action lawsuits begin; I represented the dignity of all females and Skip represented the assholery of all males).

He met my eyes, surprised at first, then instantly defiant. Apparently, the self-appointed leader of the gang and my blood brother had forgotten to tell me the third rule: never challenge the boss in front of the gang, especially if you are a girl.

He advanced on me like I had seen him do a hundred times before with the boys until finally, we stood eye to eye and toe to toe. It was a stare down; first to blink or look away would lose.

Moments went by and all were silent. The hickory tree stood brooding about its ambrosia being compromised by all the peeing going on beneath its branches. Skip’s eyes looked as beady as they did the first day we met and my cast of thousands gathered around me for support - I really wanted to beat him.

A random breeze kicked up and began to play like a mischievous fairy around my lashes. It fanned heat into my eyes and pulled at my lids. Yet, I noticed Skip’s eyes starting to tear up…he was going to blink first! What would happen if I beat him, other than my own satisfaction? No one ever beat Skip in any kind of one-on-one - it was as though there was a covert agreement amongst the gang to always save the leader from embarrassment…and getting beat by a girl would be an unimaginable embarrassment.

His baby brother wingman, Bill, yelled as if on cue, “Aw, fuck her, Skip. She’s probably all upset she can’t do this!”

Bill was peeing on the side of the shed making swooping, and fairly artistic patterns. In retrospect, there was probably more to Bill than met the eye considering his creative little pee pantomime and now his Jackson Pollock on the side of my shed – I just couldn’t see it at the time. All I saw was a little asshole with his dick in his hand…then again, that’s still the case with several male artists I know.

The gang never said the F-word directly to or about me before, and I glanced at Bill ever so briefly in shock…which meant I instantly lost, and Skip was off the hook.

It was an uncomfortable win, and everyone stood around awkwardly as the acrid smell of urine wafted off the shed. Maybe to break the awkwardness, or just because he felt the urge, Marshall called out, “That ain’t nothing to be proud of, Bill. Watch this!”

Marshall began to pee on the shed too but created a much higher arc - raising the bar, so to speak.

Gary added, “Sheeeiit, I can beat you both,” and joined the challenge.

The friction was melting away, but I was still angry. Skip turned to me and suddenly smiled, “Okay, assholes, Mary will be the judge,” as he proceeded to join in.

So, Skip gave me a consolation prize, a team mascot role, no even better, I had been given the high honor of passing judgement and declaring the winner. I was not flattered by his gesture and worse yet, I saw through it. I knew I had been given the role of judge to ensure that Skip was declared winner. Not only was I to make sure he won but I was also being allowed to redeem myself from my recent transgression of challenging his authority (this was no doubt, my entry into the world of conspiracy theory, and my first glimpse into the reality of the good ol’ boy network that’s been in place since Adam and Eve).

It was another lie-or-not-to-lie moment and as a sly smile crossed my face, I determined not to fix the game for Skip’s victory. But in retrospect and in all honesty, I really determined to rig the game so that Skip did not win, no matter what (this was no doubt due to my tendency to hold grudges and seek justice through unjust actions – this is a whole other matter, not open to discussion until I grow a bit taller spiritually…if that ever happens).  

As I was considering all this, around the corner came Grandma.

I still remember the look on her face. The boys spotted her too and started tucking, ducking, and running. Grandma’s arms were like windmills as she ran after them.

Everything seemed like it was in slow motion, except for Grandma who was gaining ground. The blood brothers looked pretty scared. I thought with some satisfaction, Bill will think twice before doing any rude pantomimes of her again. Like an avenging angel who instinctively knows the correct target, she singled Bill out and caught him by one arm. Grandma got her whacks in as he orbited her like a tiny cartoon planet. The rest of the gang made a beeline for home – guess they didn’t have a rule about no member left behind.

Under my hickory tree, Bill was screaming, and Grandma was cussing. Wasn’t it ironic this was happening under the same tree where the rude pantomime took place and where the boys peed on my hickories? This must be what poetic justice means, I thought. Then, I had a sort of revelation: divine retribution was going on under the same tree where a beady-eyed interloper first ate the forbidden fruit in my garden! I started down that rabbit hole until Bill’s increasingly desperate screams interrupted my reverie.

His little comical orbit (I had a mean sense of humor back then, still do) might have gone on much longer except for the fact that Grandma loved switches. Usually, she made the penitent choose their own switch, but she knew Bill was unlikely to cooperate at this moment. As she reached for an especially enticing little number hanging low and perfect on my hickory tree, Bill seized the chance to break free. Poor kid must have forgotten the first rule of the blood brothers about no crying because he bawled and squalled all the way home.

Grandma turned to me. In my defense, I weakly offered, “Sometimes they pee in the yard, but I always tell them not to. They don’t listen to me.”

I was a bit afraid I would suffer Bill’s fate, because sometimes just knowledge of or being in the general vicinity could mean a few swats, but Grandma must have run out of steam. I thanked my lucky stars when she dropped the switch. She encircled my shoulders and took me into the house where I was allowed to watch TV and eat popsicles for the rest of the day.

The phone rang and a hushed conversation ensued. I was informed that after the grownups talked, the boys would not be allowed to come over until they learned respect and gained some maturity - the blood brothers had been banished from my garden for the rest of the summer.

The next day, I went Outside, and my garden seemed to smile at me. Billie-the-Kid and Matt Dillon were the first to welcome me back. My cast of thousands was gathered round and the hickory tree was the shadiest I had ever seen it. The day was warm, sunny, fraught with magic without a cloud in the sky. All that had transpired was feeling like nothing more than a brief intermission when across the holler, I saw Skip and the blood brothers watching me. Our eyes met knowingly but only briefly before they returned to playing their games. As for me, I had things to attend to and atone for - Outside in my garden, new worlds were waiting to be born.